


So Wild Across the Stone

by jibrailis



Category: Chì bì | Red Cliff (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-10
Updated: 2010-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibrailis/pseuds/jibrailis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the victory at Red Cliff, Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang have a surprising discussion about tea. And other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Wild Across the Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suerum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suerum/gifts).



> The title comes from Vienna Teng.
> 
> And this fic has a soundtrack, which you can download [here!](http://www.mediafire.com/?2rnil2y3gfut6ak)

The victory at Red Cliff weighs on Zhou Yu like a knife. He feels that he is the only one. All through the night and into the early hours of the morning, the generals and their subordinates are pouring wine and offering libations, roaring with laughter all the while, for everything to them is joyful tonight, everything and anyone, and most of all when Zhang Fei stands up and does his tipsy impression of Cao Cao. Zhou Yu laughs at Zhang Fei's daring, even when Zhang Fei potentially crosses a line and imitates Cao Cao's longing for Xiao Qiao.

Zhou Yu doesn't mind. If his wife has a sense of humour, then so can he. Yet all the glad tidings in the world cannot erase the sharpness he feels through his entire body. His senses are heightened. He is shifting at every soft sigh in his ear, every clack of chopsticks, every bellow of a cheerful soldier taking his victory too far and too deep. He has felt like this after battles before but never quite to the same intensity.

Xiao Qiao is with the women doing womanly things. She would not have been invited to this gathering regardless.  Zhou Yu does not ask; she does not say. Instead he is sitting across Zhuge Liang, who looks over at him with an expression of painful understanding. He is tricky, this Zhuge Liang. Brilliant and considerate and as dangerous as an arrow through a storm of fire.

"You seem restless," Zhuge Liang says softly.

Zhou Yu takes a mouthful of wine. "It is normal, is it not, for an excess of qi after a turbulent event?"

"Perhaps," Zhuge Liang says, smiling. "Though I did not know that you dabbled in medicine."

"I was not always a soldier," Zhou Yu replies. It's half a truth. The family he was born into was cultured and bureaucratic, but even then he did not quite match up to the glittering wit of his siblings and cousins. He excelled in his studies as was his duty but he would have rather sneaked out into the courtyard to cross sticks with the rougher boys. He chuckles to himself; the signs were apparent even then. "Xiao Qiao's father is Qiao Xuan, did you know?"

"The scholar, yes," Zhuge Liang says. "I have nothing but respect for him. However, I have heard that he once supported Cao Cao."

"In his younger days," Zhou Yu says dismissively, "and many men, as good as you and I, supported Cao Cao at one point in their lives. He carried the voice of the Han Emperor, after all."

"True, all true," Zhuge Liang says, and then he swoops in as swift as a swallow and says, "There is too much wine. I never thought I would say as such, but would you like some tea instead?"

"And where," Zhou Yu says dryly, "would you find tea in this wine-soaked hall of pleasure?"

"I will brew my own," Zhuge Liang says. "I carry the leaves with me wherever I go. One never knows when one might need a spot of Black Dragon tea." He reaches behind him with nimble fingers and produces a red-wrapped package. He lays it on the table that separates them and undoes the twine. No one else is watching; conversely, Zhuge Liang's eyes are fixed on Zhou Yu, and he does not break the stare even as the packet comes apart and Zhou Yu sees the black flakes of tea leaves inside.

"Can you smell it? It is very high quality," Zhuge Liang explains.

Zhou Yu laughs. "With all the smoke and stench of the camps, do you think I can smell anything so clearly anymore?" He nods at the tea leaves. "I am no expert on tea, but I have seen Xiao Qiao's leaves and they look much the same."

"Oh no, I imagine your wife's leaves are better. She is the true master of the craft," Zhuge Liang says humbly. "Like you, I but dabble when I can." He beckons to the shadowy servants lingering behind the curtain. He speaks to them in hushed tones, but Zhou Yu can make out his compatriot's request: a clay pot, cups, boiling water. He sits back comfortably and watches the whole matter with a growing sense of curiosity. He has seen tea-making many times by now, courtesy of Xiao Qiao, but he has never seen a man who is not a servant go through the motions. It would seem to him an act of subservience, but Zhuge Liang is perfectly at ease. It does not appear to trouble him. He has shown himself to be a man who makes his own rules, and Zhou Yu both despairs of and admires it.

When the servants return, Zhuge Liang prepares space on the table. Then he starts washing the teapot and the cups with the hot water that the servants have brought, his movements careful and meaningful so not to scald himself. When he is done, he pours a measured amount of the Black Dragon leaves inside of the pot, and he nudges it so close to Zhou Yu that despite Zhou Yu's claim to not smell anything anymore, he catches a whiff of the pungent aroma. It reminds him of home, of Lujiang, and Zhou Yu feels such a strong pang of longing that it tightens his skin over his bones.

Zhuge Liang lifts the hot water above the teapot and pours it from a great height, like the offering from the mouth of a rain spirit. 

"Now this is where there is some debate," Zhuge Liang says. "Perhaps you can offer your opinion. Some say we should allow the tea to steep. Some say we should not."

"I would have it steep," Zhou Yu replies. "Patience is a gift in all things."

"Ah, I must say that I am quite the opposite." Zhuge Liang smiles again. "In tea, that is. War and...other matters are different." There is a strange tone to how he says 'other matters.' If Zhou Yu did not know better, he would think this was a seduction. But that, of course, cannot be, and so he watches as Zhuge Liang follows his directions and waits. They sit quietly for some amount of immeasurable time. Then Zhuge Liang stirs and pours the tea into the cups, steam rising meanwhile in whimsical dances.

Patience is a gift, but so is ceremony. 

There are other steps after: refilling the teapot, removing the bubbles, taking the tea that was first poured and pouring it over the pot, making it gleam. Then Zhuge Liang decides that it is time, and he places a cup deliberately before Zhou Yu, smiling his enigmatic smile all the while as he pours him his tea.

"Good fortune and good health," Zhou Yu toasts, and then the tea is a smoky warmth on his tongue and in his belly.

But it does not ease the sharpness. It feeds upon it and grows.

 

* * *

 

Zhou Yu picks his way to his rooms as the sun pierces the grey sky. He is too sober. His steps are even and steady, but his mind is restless. He passes by officials and soldiers, each of whom sees the need to stop and bow, commencing a series of courtesies that Zhou Yu is forced to return. When he finally reaches his rooms, he folds himself on top of his blankets, robes still intact, and closes his eyes.

Xiao Qiao is nowhere to be found. This is hardly unusual. She is prone to staying up late in the stables, even sleeping with the horses. Or there was a bright-eyed soldier boy Zhou Yu found her sneaking glances at earlier. He supposes that he should mind. His honour would demand him to. However, he knew from the very beginning that Xiao Qiao loved others. So, for that matter, did he. He married her for her beauty, for her grace, and for her father's approval; she married him for position. It is a match not dissimilar to most others in their circle, and they have wrangled it into something that works for them, even if it is prickly at times and thoroughly unconventional at others.

There are moments when Zhou Yu thinks no, they should live as others do, be faithful as others are -- or say they are -- but then Xiao Qiao puts her hands on his back and murmurs about peace. Peace of mind, peace of heart.

The walls in the compound are not as thick as Zhou Yu would like. As he lies on his back, trying to push himself into sleep so that he will be alert for tomorrow and the strategy meetings that are sure to follow, he hears a moan from the room beside him. The room belongs to Lord Hu, and he is a handsome fellow, so Zhou Yu is not overly surprised that he has found a nighttime paramour.

There is another groan, a different voice calling out for more.

Zhou Yu opens his eyes when he realizes that the second voice is not a woman's.

The sounds are lush and filthy. Either Lord Hu and his partner are very, very drunk or they honestly have no compunction in announcing their activities to all of their peers. Zhou Yu turns over and tries not to listen as Lord Hu reaches climax with a hoarse cry.

 

* * *

 

"I was kept up last night," Zhuge Liang says when Zhou Yu finds him overlooking the rock face. He is carrying his feathered fan and he presses its tip to his mouth thoughtfully. 

"As was I," Zhou Yu says.

"Surely not for the same reason," Zhuge Liang replies, and Zhou Yu cants his eyes to the left and then the right before looking out at the water mixed with stone. His thoughts feel as violent as the rush of tide trying to break down a mighty monument. He imagines that Zhuge Liang, as crafty as he is -- this man from western Yangdu, this advisor of Liu Bei -- knows as much. He lets out a breath and says, as peaceably as he can, "Some men make music with a qin. Others with their voice."

"And some men know no music at all," Zhuge Liang states. "It is they that I feel pity for." He looks at Zhou Yu's blank face and laughs. "I do not mean to be cryptic, my friend. I mean precisely what I say."

"I'd like to..." Zhou Yu considers his next words carefully and then plows on. "I would like to play the qin with you again, before we part ways. If that is possible."

"I too would like that," Zhuge Liang replies, and rests his fan on the edge of the platform near Zhou Yu's open hand. "Tonight, after the meetings -- is that acceptable?"

"Yes," Zhou Yu says.

 

* * *

 

Zhou Yu's qin has strings of twisted silk. It was a gift from his father-in-law at his wedding. He has carried it with him through many campaigns in the south, and Sun Quan has teased him that he would not recognize Zhou Yu if he ever showed up in his hall without his qin nearby. It is a good joke, true in many ways. The silk threads of Zhou Yu's qin wrap around goose feet, and he pulls the entire beautiful instrument onto his lap. He touches the strings with his fingers, memorizing their shape and their effortless weight.

Zhuge Liang does the same beside him.

There is no audience. Zhou Yu had not thought to invite anybody else and neither, it seems, did Zhuge Liang. The knife-like sensation in Zhou Yu's chest only twists as he tunes his qin, plucking an idle melody from his hometown. It is a song about a girl and a carp, too unrefined for the music of the high courts where subjects tend towards the illumination of the moon or the woeful melancholy of glory. 

"I recognize that song," Zhuge Liang says, and Zhou Yu wonders why he is even surprised.

They play a song they both know well and is more appropriate for their times; a soldier's marching melody. Zhou Yu is the more forceful player; Zhuge Liang is quieter and cleverer. He adds in harmonies that Zhou Yu has never heard before, and yet they fit perfectly into the fabric of the music. And Zhou Yu appreciates it. The qin is the instrument of the fine-minded; others may drum and play their pipes, but only on the qin can one express heartbreak.

Then Zhou Yu begins to sing.

He too is clever. The song has no words but he makes his own, and he uses the rhyming patterns that all scholars are taught. He sings not about soldiers marching to war but of the death of a poet. Of Qu Yuan, who wandered into a river with rocks and drowned. It is the saddest story that Zhou Yu knows, not for the loss -- for he has seen families destroyed and entire towns burned -- but for the waste of it, and for the nobility of Qu Yuan's sacrifice, Qu Yuan who could not stand to live in a corrupt age.

When he finishes, Zhuge Liang looks at him with shining eyes. He sets down his qin and moves towards Zhou Yu, who watches him impassively but not without hope. He counts under his breath the number of beats it takes for Zhuge Liang to reach his side. Four is inauspicious. Eight is better.

Zhuge Liang cups his cheek in a hand and breathes his name.

"Is this what you wanted?" Zhou Yu asks with a slightly crooked smile. "Is this what you were after all along?"

"Oh yes," Zhuge Liang says and kisses him.

Zhou Yu has a wound on his chest and on his leg, and there is a burn mark elsewhere, but none of it seems so important when he moves his mouth over Zhuge Liang's and slowly pushes him back to the ground. The door is closed; he made sure of it before he entered, and the servants have been instructed not to bother them. Perhaps they know the reason why, and perhaps there will be undignified departures and hasty explanations afterwards, but Zhou Yu's grasp on propriety has been slowly slipping away from him the day he realized that the Earth and Sky are too big to be contained by anyone, least of all himself.

Zhuge Liang makes sounds under him, and then he groans as Zhou Yu burns a kiss onto the tendons of his neck while his other hand slips through their robes and begins undoing Zhuge Liang's trappings. "You move quickly when you have the mind to," Zhuge Liang gasps, and Zhou Yu smiles as he finally parts Zhuge Liang's robes and touches his warm, too human skin. His fingers dance over Zhuge Liang's stomach -- slightly paunchy, for he is not the soldier that Zhou Yu is -- and then he shifts to accommodate the weight of his thighs.

He loosens Zhuge Liang's topknot, and the thick fall of his hair over Zhou Yu's calloused hands makes both of them shudder. "You should not show such vulnerability to me," Zhou Yu says.

"And you should be more careful around me," Zhuge Liang replies as he straddles Zhou Yu's waist and makes quick work of his clothes. He has the ease of long practice. Zhou Yu laughs to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing." He wraps a hand around a handful of Zhuge Liang's hair. "Just the unexpectedness of it all."

"This is why I am the better strategist between us."

"Oh please! Anyone could have thought of the arrow trick."

"I am sure you tell yourself that at night when you are twisted up with envy," Zhuge Liang says, biting Zhou Yu's collarbone before he slides gracefully down Zhou Yu's naked torso and uses his clever fingers between Zhou Yu's legs. Zhou Yu swears as Zhuge Liang fondles his balls. He throws his head back when Zhuge Liang puts his hand on his prick and starts moving it up and down, as rhythmic as any qin player should be. 

There is tea and there is music, and then there is this. This too is a ceremony of sorts, a ritualized service of give and take, push and pull, want and more want, fear and frustration and affectionate amusement when Zhou Yu returns the favour and has the opportunity to see Zhuge Liang lose control. Zhou Yu touches this man -- nose, mouth, neck -- and memorizes these paltry moments, for they shall leave in two days' time and who knows what the wars and factions may be then. They are building a kingdom; they are reaching for greatness. And in the midst of greatness, it is not unfathomable that a few small pieces may be tossed aside, forgotten.

_I will not forget this_, Zhou Yu thinks, and helps Zhuge Liang tie his robes back up again, mirroring his satisfied smile with a smile that is more tentative, more unsure. And Zhuge Liang seems to falter a bit when he notices it, but then he brushes his hair out of his face and stands tall.

"No fear, my brother," he says, kissing Zhou Yu's forehead. "There is to be no fear between us, not anymore."

And Zhou Yu loves him for that, for the glib-faced lie.

 

* * *

 

After they leave Red Cliff, Zhou Yu and Xiao Qiao go home. They bid their farewells to Sun Quan and Sun Shang Xiang, and they give the horse to Zhuge Liang, whose teeth marks are still all over Zhou Yu's body. Home is a house by the water. Home is the smell of anise and ginger cooking over the fire. Home is Xiao Qiao's pregnant belly and Zhou Yu fetching flowers for her from the wild fields. Home is simplicity and waiting for the storm that will throw them out into the world again.

"Are you thirsty? Do you want any tea?" Xiao Qiao asks one day, pattering about their rooms while Zhou Yu catches up on his reading. She is radiant and mischievous. There is a new stable boy she has her eye on.

"Not right now," Zhou Yu says mildly. "I would rather have wine instead."

Xiao Qiao nods. Then she adds, "You _will_ see him again. I have no doubt of that."

Zhou Yu would ask how she knows, but better still to ask the wind why it howls and the fox why it steals. "I know," he says, spreading his fingers over the pages of the book, feeling its ink strokes and crisp paper as the sharpness in him rises and diminishes. "I know."

 

* * *

 

He does, and he will.


End file.
